Five Times Bones Looked After Jim and One Time Jim Returned the Favour
by CantilenaCait
Summary: James Kirk has a bad habit of getting himself hurt, and its usually Doctor Leonard McCoy that has to pick up the pieces. A set of unconnected oneshots exploring their friendship. Shameless h/c, with plenty of Kirk!whump.
1. Chapter 1

**Of Headaches and Dinners**

**So, my first **_**Star Trek **_**fic! I've seen a load of these 'Five times…' type stories floating around, and thought I'd try my hand at it because a) it gives me a reason to beat Kirk up, b) I get to try to improve the way I write McCoy (I don't feel 100% comfortable with him yet, not sure why- on that note, let me know how I did with him in this chapter, how I could improve etc) and c) it actually motivates me to get some writing done!**

**A small disclaimer- I've never experienced a headache of the sort that I give Jim in this. I frequently experience very severe pain of the sort that requires strong prescription painkillers, but never in my head- I've never had a migraine or anything like that. So basically, I've had to go off the information my migraine-suffering friends have told me. I have no idea if migraines can actually make you pass out, but I figured if you leave them untreated for long enough the pain etc will eventually get the better of you. Usually I'd use the internet to double check facts, but that's kinda tricky at the moment because I've just moved house and as of yet there we have no internet access (I'm uploading this from my university library because thank everything that is holy for uni wifi). As a result, I apologise in advance for any mistakes you might find in this.**

**Reviews and constructive criticism are welcome, flames will probably make me cry.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own, and never will own, any part of the Star Trek franchise. 'Mwesu', 'Kla'su' and 'Plo'su' are all names that I made up, and any similarity to existing names is unintentional. Rated 'T' for some language and an **_**extremely**_** brief and fairly vague mention of child abuse (just to be safe, basically)**

* * *

Jim groaned, pressing his thumbs at the point between his nose and his eyes, where he could already feel pressure building. He recognised the warning signs of a killer headache coming on, and cursed inwardly. That was most definitely _not _what he needed. Not when Starfleet had some diplomatic business to complete with a small, god-forsaken planet in the middle of lord knows where, and _of course _they'd decided that who better to send than the _Enterprise_ and the famous James T. Kirk, their poster boy of the moment. If it had been just a simple meeting with the Mwesuni leaders, a case of sitting down at a table, getting straight to the heart of the matter, laying out Starfleet's position and negotiating a solution that met Starfleet's interests, then everything would have been fine. Diplomacy in a formal meeting was something he could do.

But things never could just be simple, could they? No. Sighing, he tugged at the collar on his dress uniform, pulling it so that it sat more neatly around his neck. The 'meeting with wary and possibly conservative planetary elders' thing still stood, of course. He hadn't expected anything else. No, it was what was meant to happen _after _the meeting that he was dreading. Namely, the five hour dinner held in his honour, according to planetary tradition, ending in the presentation of a gift from both sides as a symbol of goodwill (he'd had to endure a lecture from a certain Science Officer about the significance of gift-giving in Mwesu society, apparently it ensured eternal solidarity or loyalty or something- he'd zoned out fairly early on). Such ostentatious political displays weren't to his personal taste, but if it was necessary in ensuring the success of a mission, then so be it. Normally, when he wasn't tempted to shoot his phaser at his head in the vain hope that it would alleviate his headache, he found such dinners easy to endure while maintaining an image of polite engagement. Now though, nothing was more tempting than locking the door to his quarters, taking a handful of painkillers, removing any and all sources of light, and crashing in his bed for several hours. He most definitely did _not _want to be making meaningless small talk with dignitaries. Unfortunately, it was all part and parcel of being Starfleet's youngest ever captain; yeah he got the _Enterprise _and his crew and expeditions and even, recently, the possibility of the first five year voyage in Starfleet history, but he also got dinners and speeches and posing for pictures for local media. If he wanted one, he had to live with the other. And that meant even when he had a supernova-sized headache (oh boy, Spock would have a field day explaining exactly _why _something like a headache couldn't be supernova sized).

He sighed and turned to look in the mirror, grimacing at how grey he looked. He slapped his cheeks lightly, bringing a little more colour into them, and ran his fingers through his hair. With any luck, he'd get through the meeting and the dinner without anyone noticing his complexion. And by anyone, he thought wryly, he meant a particular Georgian doctor who would hang, draw, and quarter him if he realised that he was ill and working rather than resting.

A knock at the door made him jump. The sudden action made his head spin, and instinctively he leant on the sink. _Damn it_.

'Jim?'

Leonard McCoy's gruff voice carried clearly through the heavy door.

'Jim, the shuttle to take us to the surface is nearly ready to leave.'

'Give me a minute, Bones!'

Jim grabbed a small box of painkillers out of the bathroom cabinet, tipping a couple into his hand and then down his throat, throwing his head back slightly and dry swallowing. Wiping his mouth, he walked across his room and opened the door to find his best friend standing just outside, wearing his own dress uniform and looking disturbingly like an exceedingly disgruntled badger that has been forced to leave its sett, made to wear a suit, and told to walk on its back legs and work in a bank. Doctor McCoy was rarely found outside his beloved Sickbay, and it was even rarer for him to be seen in anything other than his blue Medical uniform. Whenever he had to attend events as a member of the _Enterprise_'s senior staff, he always had an air of irritation hanging around him.

Bones looked Jim up and down, as though trying to work out what could possibly have caused his captain to take so long to get ready, before looking him in the eyes and raising an eyebrow.

'Took you long enough, kid.'

Jim shrugged.

'I don't just wake up with perfect hair, you know. It takes time and effort to look this good all the time.'

Bones' eyebrow disappeared into his hairline, his patented 'why-the-hell-am-I-even-friends-with-you' look pasted on his face. The doctor turned and began walking at a brisk pace towards the landing bay. Smiling slightly, Jim hurried to catch up, ignoring the throbbing pain between his eyes.

* * *

Despite the army of Klingons battering against the inside of his skull, Jim was happy to count the meeting a success. The elders, after some initial reticence and extensive discussion, had accepted Starfleet's conditions for joining the Federation, and agreed to re-establish their system trade routes, which had been destroyed by petty conflict the decade before. The three hours of debate had ended with the Mwesuni eagerly shaking Jim's hand, talking animatedly about the benefits of Federation membership for their race. Their naturally high voices had become increasingly shrill as they became more excited, and their words were like long pins being slowly pushed into Jim's head, aggravating the headache to the stage where he was barely able to concentrate on the conversation. Luckily, the elders didn't seem to have noticed their guest's disengagement, and had continued chattering all the way to the hall where the dinner was to be held. Rather more unluckily, Bones seemed to have realised that something was off (damn that 'something's-up-with-Jim' radar of his) and had attached himself to his side, occasionally glancing at him in a way that Jim recognised as an attempt to spot any physical injury. Of course, he hadn't seen anything obvious, and so had had to content himself with being even more barnacle-like than usual.

Now, the two were sat next to each other, three hours and three courses into the dinner. Jim's head felt like it was going to split at the seams, and the prospect of eating made his stomach physically churn- he'd only been nibbling a sample of each dish served to him (something else he was sure his overly observant CMO had spotted) and even the miniscule amount he had forced into his stomach felt as though it was going to reacquaint itself with the outside world if he made any sudden movements. As the imaginary Klingons inside his skull seemed to be aggravated every time he shifted his head to face whoever was addressing him at any given time, staying as still as possible seemed like a good solution. However, the fact that the room was lilting around in a decidedly nauseating fashion didn't help his headache _or _swirling stomach.

He frowned slightly, concentrating on a brick on the opposite wall. Maybe if he focused on that, the room would stop moving. A wave of pain pulsed through his sinuses and temples, and he blinked to clear the thousands of white spots that crowded his vision, sucking in sharply through his nose. He remembered something his mom had once told him, on one of her extremely rare trips back to the Iowa backwater where she'd left him- funny what you remember when there's what feels like a mechanical drill shoving its way backwards through your head.

_He was young, nine at the most. She was knelt in front of him, stroking his face with the sort of gentleness that he associated only with her, the kind that he never got from anyone else in his life. Her fingers ghosted over the cut on his cheek, from where Frank's ring had left its mark- not that he'd told her Frank was responsible, he'd blamed it on a rock because Frank would've killed him if he'd told her._

'_You listen to me, Jimmy. If you're ever in pain, and there're no painkillers at hand for whatever reason, you breathe in deeply for 8, and then release it slowly for 10, and you keep doing that for as long as you need to. It'll help, I promise_.'

He swallowed hard in an attempt to contain the sudden flood of memories and then, keeping his eyes fixed on the same brick, inhaled slowly- _1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8_- and exhaled- _1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10._ And again. Slowly, his vision cleared. He couldn't tell if the pain was really getting better (it was probably psychological) but at least he no longer felt like he was going to embarrass himself by dramatically throwing up and/or passing out at a diplomatic event.

'Hey, Jim. You alright, kid?'

Jim took his eyes off the brick and turned to look at Bones, inwardly cursing as the room began doing its drunken waltz thing again. Putting on his best mask, he smiled.

'Yeah, Bones. I'm fine, so quit your worrying, ok?'

McCoy huffed loudly at that, his eyes giving Jim the once over.

'No offence, but you don't exactly look 'fine'. You're even pastier than usual, and you've been giving that brick a death glare for the past five minutes. I'm surprised you didn't burn a hole through it, or make it fall out the wall, or something.'

Jim rolled his eyes- and instantly regretted it. _Damn this goddamn headache straight to Hell_. He was keenly aware of his friend's gaze on him, and picked up the spoon in front of him. At some point in the last few minutes, the fourth (and thankfully penultimate) course had been served. It looked like some form of green gelatinous blob, and Jim could've sworn that it had tentacles. He poked it tentatively, and the blob wobbled back at him. He swallowed. It was fine, he could eat this. It was just like jelly. Green, quite possibly once alive, jelly. Cautiously, he dug his spoon into the- thing's- side, and scooped a little out. Quickly, he put it in his mouth, resisting the urge to grimace as he felt it slide easily down his throat. _Definitely slimier than jelly_. He looked across the room at the rest of his crew, smiling slightly at their reactions to the blob. Chekov had gone a delicate shade of green, Scotty was alternating between a mouthful of blob and a swig of the burning alcoholic drink their guests had plied them with, and Uhura appeared to be discussing the blob with the Mwesu seated next to her. His throat tightened compulsively. They were _his _crew. _His_ family. Once again, he was struck by how protective he was of them, and the thought of _anything _happening to them, of anyone doing anything to harm them, made him angry beyond belief.

'_Is there anything you would not do for your family?'_

Well, no. He'd die for them. He _had _died for them. And he'd do it again in a heartbeat. Bones would beat the shit out of him for even saying that, but it was the truth. It had been the truth since Nero, had been the truth throughout the Khan ordeal, and would probably continue to be the truth for as long as the _Enterprise _was under his command. He watched them for a few more moments, briefly forgetting the pain throbbing menacingly between his eyes.

A light tap on the shoulder made him look round. Kla'su, the Mwesuni who had been designated his personal aide for the evening, was standing just behind him, escorting an extremely elderly male who Jim recognised to be Plo'su, the revered Chief who had elected to send his eldest son to that afternoon's meeting in his stead.

'Captain Kirk, it is my pleasure to introduce Chief Plo'su. He has waited long to make your acquaintance.'

The ancient Mwesu clicked his tongue and bowed his head. Jim reciprocated the traditional greeting, and then stood, holding out his hand.

_That was a bad idea. Shit_.

The dizziness that he had managed to control when he was seated surged through him at full force. He felt his legs weaken, just as a bolt of fire seared through his brain.

And then the ground was rushing up to meet him and darkness enveloped him, and he welcomed it with open arms.

'_Jim!'_

* * *

At barely 40, McCoy believed himself too young to be at risk of heart failure. Seeing his best friend suddenly and inexplicably fall to the ground, however, was enough to make him reconsider that assumption. For one long, awful moment, his mind went into overdrive and he saw Jim in a body bag on the _Enterprise_, Jim in a cryotube, Jim hooked up to life support in Starfleet Medical but with no vital signs showing on the machines, just straight lines and blank screens, and the horrible, gnawing fear that he'd been too late, that this was one time when he wouldn't be able to patch the heroic idiot up again and make him as good as new.

Then he blinked and he was back in the hall, surrounded by _Enterprise _crew and Mwesuni alike, with Jim out cold on the stone floor. Quickly, he moved to examine the captain, instinctively placing two fingers on the pulse point in his throat, just to reassure himself that yes, his friend was still alive, despite current appearances indicating otherwise. Jim's heart was racing just a little too fast, setting off alarm bells in McCoy's head- a high heart rate usually meant the patient was in pain, or there was something serious going on that was causing the body to panic. He hoped it wasn't the latter. He didn't know if he could cope with another one of Jim's close-shaves, not so soon after they'd got him back. He rolled Jim into the recovery position, swiping his hair back off his face. He winced when he saw how ashen the young man was, noting the pain lines stretching across the otherwise unmarked face. Mentally, he cursed himself for not bringing his Medkit with him; a tricorder would be beyond useful at the moment.

He became aware of a tall presence kneeling beside him, and didn't even have to look to know who it was.

'Spock, we need to get him back on the ship. Now.'

The Vulcan nodded, briefly reaching out to touch Jim's hand before turning to address Scotty. McCoy vaguely heard the two talking as he tended the captain, gently running his hands over Jim's body in an attempt to ascertain whether there was any internal injury that could have caused his sudden collapse. It was an antiquated technique, but it was still fairly effective and in the doctor's eyes, it was a damn sight better than sitting back on his heels and doing nothing.

'Ensign Nichols says they're ready when you are, Doctor McCoy.'

McCoy glanced at Scotty and gave a quick, terse nod. A moment later he felt the slight prickling sensation of being beamed up through the atmosphere, and then both he and Jim were safely on the _Enterprise_'s landing pad. A gurney, accompanied by Chapel and two other nurses, was already waiting to receive them. As they rushed forward to gently lift Jim's inert body onto the bed, McCoy made a mental note to thank the Scotsman for his initiative when all this was over.

The two minutes it took to get to Sickbay felt like hours to McCoy, yet at the same time it passed in a blur. He heard himself booming instructions to the nurses, as much a medical professional as he ever was- Doctor McCoy, CMO on board the _USS_ _Enterprise_, for whom every patient was a life to protect. He was also aware of the fact that he had placed his hand on Jim's forehead and had held it there, occasionally running it through the blond hair in the way that he knew calmed Jim down, and of the fact that his heart felt like it would probably leap out of his mouth, if the lump in his throat wasn't in the way- that was Leonard McCoy, from Georgia, father of Joanna, best friend of James Kirk, scared shitless that he was about to watch said best friend slip away from him for the second time in six months.

Once they were safely in Sick Bay, he lurched into action. Lunging for the nearest tricorder, he ran it quickly over Jim's body, his eyes searching for the damage that he knew would be there. Or rather, the damage he was certain existed, given how high Jim's pain reading was. The scanner beeped and he frowned at it, before running it again. It beeped once more, showing him the same result. _Migraine._

McCoy resisted the urge to throw the machine against the wall, instead setting it down on the side with all his other equipment. Running his fingers through his hair, he tipped his head and breathed in deeply, releasing the air in a steady stream before turning to look at the unconscious man lying on the bed.

_Migraine_.

The doctor shook his head, relief flooding through him. Not a major, life threatening injury. Not Khan's super-blood finally backfiring on them. Just a normal, run-of-the-mill migraine, the kind countless crew members suffered from, the ailment that had plagued mankind for centuries and for which the only cure continued to be painkillers and rest.

If he wasn't fighting the urge to punch an unconscious, defenceless man for causing him inordinate amounts of fear, McCoy would have laughed.

Quietly, he hooked Jim up to an IV, which immediately began feeding him a steady supply of painkillers, just enough to knock the pain on the head. He watched as the pain lines on the young captain's face began to release, and smiled softly to himself. Fetching a towel, he deftly made a cold compress and placed it on Jim's forehead. Perhaps not the most advanced medical technique, but one his momma swore by when treating her own migraines. He located a blanket and pulled it over Jim, and then straightened up, his fingers finding Jim's pulse again. The now steady beat comforted him, chasing away the last remnants of that fear that he was going to lose him, a concrete sign that James T. Kirk was still alive, still part of the universe, still around to cause certain CMOs to suffer minor heart failure once a week. Rubbing his hand over his face, McCoy stepped back from the bed.

_Dammit Jim. You've got to stop doing that to me. _

After grabbing a PADD full of reports that needed finishing, he dimmed the lights, and sat himself in the chair next to his captain's bed. He listened to Jim's quiet, even breathing, thankful for that tiny yet immensely reassuring sign of life. This wait wasn't going to be like the last time, when the silence in the room had been crushing and there was the ever present fear of '_will this work? Was I fast enough?_' Now, he just had to wait for Jim to wake up.

This time, Jim was going to be fine.


	2. Chapter 2

**Kidnapped**

**Firstly, thanks to everyone who followed and/or favourite this story! Seriously, I love each and every one of you.**

**Really not sure about this one, writer's block hit me pretty hard when I was trying to write it. It got to the point where I could scarcely bear to look at it anymore, so please excuse any errors. Hope you guys enjoy it, and please leave a review (constructive criticism is very welcome, flames less so)**

**Rated T for a minor bit of swearing.**

* * *

Jim returned to consciousness slowly, blinking his eyes open bit by bit. He shivered slightly. Wherever he was, it was cold. And dark. It was most definitely _not _the desert he and the exploration team with him had been trekking through.

Speaking of team…..he did another sweep of the room he was in, the thought of members of his crew being trapped down here with him making his gut twist uncomfortably. Capture, and the torture that usually accompanied it, was something that he was unfortunately accustomed to, and he prided himself on being able to withstand a lot without giving his torturers the answers they wanted (in that sense, he supposed that for all his homicidal-dictator tendencies, Kodos had to an extent taught him something useful). But the crew sent to the planet to observe the 'primitive' civilisation that lived on its surface were less hardened. Summers had only just graduated from Starfleet Academy, for god's sake. Once reassured that he seemed to be alone in the cell, Jim allowed himself to breathe a small sigh of relief. Whoever (or whatever- you never quite knew) had taken him seemed to have left the rest of his team alone. Of course, it was possible that they'd simply been put into a separate cell, but he preferred to believe that they were safely away from the planet by now, hopefully telling Bones and Spock what had happened. They'd be on their way soon. He just had to wait. _Not that I'm going anywhere soon_, he thought wryly.

Something trickled down his face and towards his mouth, and he attempted to wipe it away, only to find that his wrists were restricted. Twisting his head to look behind him, he saw that they were chained to a ring lodged in the stone wall. He huffed in frustration, resting his head back on the wall. The liquid had made its way into his mouth, tasting salty and slightly metallic. He grimaced. Blood. He must have been hit on the head when he was kidnapped- that would explain why his vision was remaining stubbornly blurred. Just his luck to not only be in a tiny, dark cell on an extremely primitive planet with natives who were going to do god-knows-what to him, but to also be trapped in said cell on said planet with a concussion. Sometimes, he wanted to send his thrice damned 'Kirk-luck' straight into deep space.

The cut on his forehead throbbed painfully, and he groaned.

Bones was going to murder him.

* * *

_'Chapman to Enterprise, we have a critical casualty. Request immediate transportation and medical team on arrival.'_

'_Enterprise to Chapman, message received. Stand by for teleportation'_

'_Scotty to Sickbay. Doctor McCoy, you're needed in the transporter room, with an emergency crew. The captain's landing party is reporting a critical casualty.'_

Doctor Leonard McCoy cursed. He could guess exactly who the 'critical casualty' was, namely a certain blond-haired idiot who seemed to get a kick out of near death experiences. Running a hand over his face, he breathed out to steady himself- only Jim could make him feel this much panic, and he hated him for it.

'M'Benga, I need you to stay here and prepare for the arrival of a critical patient. You know the drill. Chapel, Pritchard, you're coming with me. Bring one of the emergency beds.'

When they'd all confirmed that they understood his orders, McCoy grabbed his Medkit. Checking that the nurses were ready, he strode out of Sickbay, forcing himself not to run.

_One of these days, James Kirk, I'm going to kill you myself._

The medical team arrived at the transporter room just in time to see the swirling lights that accompanied every teleportation. Seeing only three figures when there ought to have been five, McCoy scowled. If Jim had lost two members of his team, he was going to need a lot more than just medical help to recover; losing crewmembers always hit him hard.

The lights finally cleared, and McCoy was able to clearly see the people who had just boarded the ship. He stared in horror at the three crew members standing on the transportation pad. They were a mess; Chapman had a nasty cut on her right arm, Sheppard seemed to be favouring his left leg, and they were both supporting the barely conscious form of Summers, who had a hand feebly pressed against a dark red patch spreading across his side. His heart dropped to his stomach- there was no sign of Jim. He moved forward and grabbed Summers, helping Chapel manoeuvre him onto the emergency bed. Lifting the red shirt, which was beginning to stick to the messy wound in his side, the doctor assessed the damage. _Deep stab wound, made by something with a serrated blade, going by those torn edges. In same region as liver- possible internal organ damage. _

'Get him to Doctor M'Benga. Tell him I suspect potential organ damage, specifically of the liver; he needs immediate surgery.'

With a nod from Chapel, the bed carrying Summers was whisked down the corridor and towards Sickbay. McCoy watched it go, before rounding on the remaining two members of the party. Sheppard had sat down on the edge of the teleportation pad, his injured leg stretched out in front of him. Chapman was still standing, her left hand clamped over the freely bleeding cut. Both of them were deathly pale and looked in need of some strong painkillers and about 15 hours of sleep. If Jim was on board and safe, like he should've been, then McCoy would have sent them straight down to Sickbay. But right now, Jim was god-knows-where, and he could barely concentrate through the constant stream of _where is he what happened why isn't he here_ running through his brain. As CMO, he knew that his priority should have been treating the patients he had first, and worrying about absent potential patients second. As a best friend, he wanted answers.

'What the _hell _happened down there?' he growled.

Chapman swallowed. She'd seen him shoot people who had threatened to harm Captain Kirk, and that same thunderous glint was in his eyes now as he glared at her.

'W-we…' she coughed, clearing her voice, 'we were attacked. Some members of the tribe we were observing- they jumped us while we walking through the desert back to our pick-up point. We tried to fight them off, but we were outnumbered- Dubois was killed in the struggle-'

'And what about Jim?' McCoy interrupted, forcing his voice not to waver even though his stomach felt like it was lined with ice.

Chapman's eyes dropped to the ground.

_Oh god. God no. Please, don't let him be dead. Please no. He's not dead he's not allowed to be dead he's not dead he's not he's not he's __**not**__._

'Lieutenant, answer the question. What happened to the captain?' He allowed his fear to add weight to the last five words, infusing them with urgency. When the woman in front of him raised her head, he was shocked to see tears forming in her eyes.

_No_.

'Two of our attackers grabbed him from behind, and I think one of them hit him on the head with something. He dropped like a rock, and the locals carried him away. I-I wanted to help him, to go back for him, but Summers was hurt, and Sheppard couldn't defend himself and Summers, and he was yelling at me to get moving otherwise we'd all be killed- I didn't want to leave him, Doctor McCoy, I know he'd never leave any of us, but with Summers the way he was, we had to get back to the ship as soon as possible-'

McCoy wrestled with the anger threatening to bubble up inside him- how _dare _they just give up on Jim, he was their _captain_, he wouldn't have given up on them if their roles had been reversed- what on _earth_ made them think that they'd done the right thing? Jim was missing, his best friend was _gone _and it was all their fault.

_Don't blame them, Leonard_, he reprimanded himself. _You know Jim's code has always been to take care of casualties. He'd never forgive himself if they'd gone after him and let Summers die._ He sighed. _Damn your honour, Jim_.

'It's ok, Chapman. You did well to get the three of you back. Go down to Sickbay and get one of the nurses to check you over and give you something for the pain. You too, Sheppard.'

They nodded, and stood, Sheppard leaning on Chapman's shoulder. McCoy knew that he should've accompanied them and carried out the examinations himself, but he also knew that his team would handle it well. Their injuries were fairly minor, or as minor as an apparently broken tibia could be, and he had more pressing matters on his mind.

According to Chapman's account, Jim was most likely still alive, but captured.

And when Jim Kirk was involved, being kidnapped usually meant that something much worse was going to happen.

Memories of previous situations in which Jim had been captured came to mind, and each ended the same way- with a bruised, bloodied and, once, barely alive captain.

He shoved the images back, squared his shoulders, and set out for the Bridge.

This time, they wouldn't be late.

* * *

It didn't take Jim long to realise that he hadn't been given any water by his captors. He was beginning to regret not drinking more when he'd had the chance- the landing party had had several bottles of water with them, at Bones' insistence.

'_It's a dry planet, Jim. Trust me, you're going to want all that water. I don't want any of those bottles to have even a few drops in them when you come back. I will __**not **__treat your scrawny ass for dehydration simply because you 'forgot' to have a drink at least once an hour, you hear me?'_

'_Yes, Bones. Now stop worrying, you'll only give yourself even more grey hairs and Joanna will barely be able to recognise you when you get home.'_

'_Kid, if anyone's turning me grey, it's you and this flying tin-can.'_

'_No one made you join Starfleet, and you can always resign, you know.'_

'_And what, leave you to die because whichever inept imbecile replaces me doesn't know about the list of '5001 things that could potentially kill James Kirk?' Like that's going to happen.'_

_He'd laughed at that._

'_Buck up, Bones, I don't need you going all soft on me now. I'd miss the sarcasm and mild abuse.'_

'_If you don't shut up I might accidentally sedate you with one of the many things you're allergic to. Then we'll see who's laughing.'_

'_Threatening your senior officer like that is insubordination. I could have you court-martialled.'_

'_I'm serious though, Jim. Come back in one piece.'_

'_When do I not?'_

Yeah, Bones was probably going to hypo him into oblivion, and then insist that he never be allowed on another on-world mission for the rest of his Starfleet career when he got back on board. He _knew _he should have had more to drink when he'd had the chance. At least then he might have been decently hydrated _before _getting thrown into a cell without any water for the foreseeable future.

Voices outside of his cell made him jump. A small grille in the door pulled back, and he caught a glimpse of a tattooed face looking in on him before it turned away. Through the bars, he could see a flickering light and the tattooed face talking to someone else. He figured that now was as good a chance as any to get a drink.

'Hey, guys, can I talk to you real quick?'

The voices outside stopped when they heard his words, and then the local was staring at him through the grille. Jim got the distinct impression that on this planet, prisoners weren't meant to talk to their guards. He ploughed on anyway.

'Can I have some water? I'm dying for a drink.'

The tattooed face looked at him blankly. He decided to try saying it a little slower.

'Uhh- water? Wa-ter?'

The guard began laughing, turning to say something to his companion. The sound of both guards' laughter echoed around the cell, before it stopped abruptly and the tattooed guard appeared at the grille again.

'No water for blue eyed demons,' he growled in stumbling Basic.

Jim just stared at him.

'I'm- I'm not a demon! I swear it. I'm James T. Kirk, Captain of the USS _Enterprise_, and a Starfleet Officer. There's nothing demonic about me, I swear. Just-please give me some water.'

His guard looked at him coldly, his eyes narrowed.

'No water for blue eyed demons. You must be purified.'

'Purif- wait, hold on! What does that even mean? What are you going to do to me, you tattooed bastards?'

The guards laughed again, and the grille slid shut, forcing Jim back into darkness.

'Well,' he muttered to himself, 'room service- 0 out of 10.'

* * *

'So the Captain has been taken by possibly hostile life forms?'

McCoy ground his teeth in frustration. For someone who was supposedly one of Jim's closest friends on the _Enterprise_, Spock sure was taking his sweet time in reacting to the situation.

'Yes, Mr Spock. That's the long and short of it, but the point is we don't know exactly _how _hostile this civilisation is, so we don't know what they're going to do to Jim.'

One of Spock's meticulously maintained eyebrows rose, and McCoy resisted the urge to smash his head on the work-station in front of him. Taking blood from a goddamn stone would be easier than trying to get the hobgoblin in front of him to show emotion. He knew that the news of Jim's kidnap had shaken the Vulcan; the man was half-human of course, and that human side had shown itself in the brief flash of concern and anger that McCoy had spotted in his eyes, before the emotionless mask slid back in place.

'Then we must act before any harm comes to him. After all, as Captain of the ship, he will be hard to replace.'

McCoy's head snapped up at that, and he stared in disbelief at Spock. All that time spent trying to get him to react, to show that he did actually care what happened to Jim, and he had condensed everything-everything that Jim was, all that life, too much life to be crammed into one man- down to 'Captain'. As though that was all the _Enterprise_ stood to lose if it lost Jim.

Jim was so much more than that.

He was a friend, a brother, a leader. He was encouragement, trust, security, love.

He was the _Enterprise_'s heart.

Without him, the ship would be pretty much dead in the water. Yes, the crew was one of Starfleet's best. How could they not be, having gone through what they had? How many crews could say they'd faced a deranged Romulan warlord from the future, when they were barely out of the Academy, and survived? They all knew how to do their jobs, they would get the ship home if Jim didn't come back.

But what would they be without him? What would the ship be without him?

It would barely be the _Enterprise _anymore.

She'd be lost without the idiot from Iowa.

Hell, _he'd _be lost without the idiot from Iowa.

McCoy hardened his gaze as he glared at the Vulcan who had _dared_ suggest that Jim was simply a Captain, and growled his next sentences.

'Starfleet will give us another Captain if we screw up so badly that we lose ours. Captains aren't irreplaceable. _Jim_ is.'

For a moment, he could've sworn that he saw something flicker in Spock's dark eyes, emotions battling to rise to the surface and shatter the porcelain mask that was always so carefully laid in place. The Science Officer held the doctor's gaze for a few moments more, the same waves of anxiety rolling off them both, strong and palpable from one, more subdued from the other. A barely perceptible nod from Spock, and then he turned to look at Lieutenant Uhura, who was standing at his right shoulder.

'Lieutenant, locate the Captain's comm signal. When you do, I expect you to report to me immediately.'

Uhura nodded, immediately moving to her station.

'Ensign Chekov,' the Russian spun at the mention of his name, 'help the Lieutenant in any way you can. The Captain must be found.'

'Right away, zir!'

McCoy watched the two crew members as they fervently began entering numbers and doing god-only-knows what else to find Jim, and frowned.

'I'm no expert in this, Mr Spock, but shouldn't they tell Scotty if they get a read? Seeing as he's the one who'll be able to beam him onto the ship?'

'Unfortunately, Dr McCoy, it is out of the question to beam the Captain aboard. The surface atmosphere interferes with the teleportation process, leaving an 89.74% chance of transport failing. To initiate teleportation of a living being would be too great a risk.'

The doctor resisted the urge to groan. Of course, _of course_, getting Jim back wouldn't be as simple as just finding his signal and getting the engineers to bring him back on board. No, he should have expected that they'd have to send a team down to him.

_Dammit, kid_.

It never could be easy where James Kirk was involved, could it?

* * *

Jim was woken by the unpleasant sensation of being much too hot. His shirt was plastered to his back, which had been pressed against the wall, and his hair lay damp and flat across his forehead. He could feel trickles of sweat making their way down his chest, soaking him. Some of the salty fluid dripped into the cut above his forehead, causing it to sting. He winced. At least his head didn't ache as much as it had before. That was one minor blessing, though he knew that if Bones knew he'd fallen asleep with a concussion, even a mild one, he'd have lost his ear to a few choice Georgian phrases. Lifting his head, he opened his eyes, and then slammed them shut almost immediately to block out the blinding white light that assaulted them.

_Wha-?_

Disorientated, he cast his mind back, trying to work out when he'd been moved from his dark cell to somewhere that was clearly outside and completely at the mercy of the desert sun. He couldn't remember being moved, so reasoned that his captors must have moved him when he was asleep.

If that was the case, he was very impressed- necessity had made him a light sleeper when he was young, and he'd never lost the habit.

He scowled at the familiar weight hanging around his wrists. Whoever had moved him clearly didn't feel as though wherever he was was secure enough to hold him without further restraints. Oh yeah, and they thought he was some supernatural being. The memory of the guard's words- _no water for blue eyed _demons- came back to him. If they believed he was a demon, no wonder they were keeping him chained up. They probably thought he had all sorts of powers up his sleeve.

Cautiously, he opened his eyes again, slowly, so that they were mere slits and he could observe his surroundings through his lashes, without being affected by the bright white light around him.

Instead of his cell, he was in what seemed to be a pit dug into the sand. The walls were approximately nine feet tall, he guessed, and made of smooth rock, the same colour as the sand that he'd spent a couple of days walking across with the exploration team-it still felt like he had half the desert in his shoes. He spotted the door in the wall across from him, with the grille through which he'd made his guards' charming acquaintance last night, and he could just about make out a tunnel beyond it. Letting his head fall back, he saw the planet's clear blue sky above him, so like the skies above the Sahara in those old documentaries. The edge of what appeared to be a large slab of stone was visible, and suddenly he realised how he had moved from a dark, cold cell to this oven; at night, the stone was slipped into place to conceal the pit, and during the day it was moved back to ensure prisoners experienced the full extent of the planet's heat.

It was ingenious.

It was also, Jim knew, a death trap.

No shade, no water, in 45°C heat.

'Blue eyed demons must be purified.'

The heat was already taking its toll, making his head spin slightly. He swore. Growing up in Iowa, with its warm summers, he was well aware of the dangers of heat exhaustion. He knew you had to be careful to drink enough, and to stay out of direct sunlight, both of which weren't exactly options here. The bastards really had thought this through well.

What was it they'd been taught in survival classes at the Academy?

_Fourteen days without food, three days without water_.

Without water, he'd be dead in three days. Probably less in these conditions.

He ran his tongue over his lips, trying to ignore how dry they already felt.

_Anytime soon would be good, Bones._

* * *

They'd been going at this for nearly 8 hours, and McCoy was keenly aware of time slipping away from them. The same interference that made teleportation impossible was blocking signals from the planet, distorting the few that made it through to the ship. As Uhura had snapped at him when he'd ask what was taking so long, 'it's like trying to find the platinum one in a pile of steel needles.' Jim had already been gone for 10 hours, and the doctor tapped his fingers impatiently on the desk in front of him, resisting the urge to lean over Chekov's shoulder and scrutinise exactly what he was doing. He knew it wouldn't help to interfere- the boy wasn't the Navigator on a starship at the age of seventeen for nothing; he was a genius, and McCoy's brain couldn't hold a spark to the Russian's. It was better to stand back and let him and Uhura do their jobs.

That didn't mean he had to like waiting around and doing nothing. He wished he could have been down in Sick Bay, but by the time he'd informed Spock of the situation, M'Benga and the rest of the Medical staff had fixed up Jim's away team. When it came down to it, it was a case of either sitting in Sick Bay, twiddling his thumbs and waiting for news, or waiting on the Bridge.

In his mind, it was better to be on the Bridge and close to the centre of the search mission, and the hushed, tense atmosphere of concentration was oddly reassuring- they were going to find him, no matter what.

'I've got something!'

Uhura's voice rang out in the silence, and immediately all attention focused on her. Chekov scrambled out of his chair, nudging past McCoy to move to her station. He and Spock peered at the data on the screen, talking to each other in low voices. McCoy held his breath, and waited.

After a few minutes- which was much too long, in the doctor's opinion, for all they knew Jim didn't have minutes- Spock moved over to McCoy.

'Well?'

'It would indeed seem that Lieutenant Uhura has located the Captain. We have the coordinates of his signal, and a rescue team will be leaving in a shuttle shortly.'

'Please tell me I'm part of that team.'

'Doctor McCoy, I think it would be more logical to have members of the crew who are specialised in combat….'

'I'm going in that shuttle.'

'Doctor McCoy…'

'No, you listen to me, Mr Spock.' McCoy growled. 'Jim's down there, probably with injuries that we have no idea about. We know he at least has a concussion, if Chapman's story is accurate. Now, I don't know what the hell they've done to him in the past 10 hours but trust me, you're more than likely going to want a medical expert with you, or risk him bleeding out or going into shock or some other situation that you will _not _be able to handle alone. So I don't care what you say about security. I am going on that shuttle!'

The last sentence was almost a roar. The doctor stood, eyes fixed on the Vulcan in front of him, his jaw set and his shoulders tense. The other man looked at him coolly for a moment, and then dipped his head in acquiescence.

McCoy exhaled loudly, allowing his relief to show on his face.

There was no chance in hell that he was going to let someone else rescue his best friend.

* * *

Thirst. Throat like sandpaper, tongue heavy and feeling like a block of wood.

Dizziness. The world spinning slightly at every turn of the head. The sun swirling gracefully in the sky.

Fatigue. Eyelids as heavy as soaking wet denim. Eyes burning. The inexorable pull of sleep and oblivion.

Heat. Too much. Unrelenting. Merciless.

_Bones, turn the heater off, would you? _

_I promise not to get a chill, I swear. Anyways, it's not my fault those idiots decided it would be funny to shove me in the lake._

_Bones, please. At least take the blanket off._

_I'm too hot. I need to cool down._

_Turn the heat down._

_I won't get ill again._

_Bones?_

* * *

The shuttle had landed a mile outside the settlement which Uhura and Chekov had traced Jim's comm signal to. On Spock's orders, the rescue team had stayed near the shuttle until evening- after all, there was no point in attempting to take Jim from under the noses of his guards in broad daylight. They had a higher chance of the mission going smoothly in the dark, when the locals' physiology rendered them almost blind. It was blisteringly hot in the sun, and McCoy couldn't help but pray that Jim's captors had at least at the sense to keep him somewhere underground and shaded, and to give him a supply of water. The indigenous species may be able to withstand high temperatures for long periods of time, but humans most definitely could not.

He wiped away the beads of sweat rolling down his face from his hairline, and took a swig from the water bottle he held at his side.

If the heat was having an effect on him after 10 minutes, he didn't even want to think about what condition Jim was in.

He'd been here for just over 12 hours. That was more than enough time for someone to get heat exhaustion.

Finally, darkness fell and they were able to make a move. They walked quickly through the desert, and McCoy tried to ignore the burn in his calves from walking on soft sand. Maybe, when this was over, he should consider joining Jim in his exercise regime. Half an hour doing weights or running on the treadmill every morning clearly wasn't enough.

A small number of buildings appeared between the dunes, and a small, determined smile lifted the corner of McCoy's mouth.

They were nearly there.

He mentally ran through the plan that had been explained to him on the shuttle- _the security guys will get us safely through the settlement, I get to Jim, check him over, and then we get him out and we're home and dry_.

The team moved forward a few more metres, stopping to crouch behind a dune just in front of the first building. McCoy was vaguely aware of Spock issuing instructions, but his mind was focused on the task ahead.

_We're coming for ya, kid._

Then they were standing and moving into the town, two members of security in front and two tailing them, walking towards the point where Chekov swore they'd find Jim. Luck seemed to be on their side- no one apprehended them, and they travelled swiftly and silently between the buildings.

Suddenly, Chekov stopped, causing McCoy to almost walk into him. The doctor peered round the younger man's shoulder, spotting a large boulder where Chekov's tricorder was telling him Jim should be.

'I- I do not understand. Ze Keptin, he should be here, he's meant to be right here!'

McCoy swallowed hard, fighting back the Kraken that was beginning to squirm in his stomach.

'I am sure the Captain is in this area, Ensign. We will find him.'

Chekov nodded at Spock's words, clearly distressed that his calculations hadn't brought them to Jim immediately.

'Sir, over here!'

Spock and McCoy turned to see one of the security team standing by a small hut.

'There's a set of stairs here, sir. Should we go down?'

McCoy glanced at Spock. The Vulcan was frowning at the stairs, as though trying to decide whether it was a trap. After a few moments, he strode forwards and into the dark. The rest of the team followed, save for the crewman who had spotted the stairs; on his way past, Spock commanded him to stay on guard.

Setting his shoulders, McCoy stepped onto the first stair.

_Hold on, Jim_.

* * *

Voices in the corridor.

Jim tried to open his eyes, but found the effort overwhelming. He sat listlessly against the wall, his head falling forward slightly. He'd long given up trying to ignore the dull ache in his throat, the dryness of his mouth, the dizziness in his head. Everything ached, yet at the same time he felt as though he was floating. His limbs were heavy, yet he had discovered that lifting his head induced an odd form of vertigo that made them feel weightless, and which made his stomach turn unpleasantly.

The voices were drawing closer.

The light of a torch flickered on the corridor walls.

Then he heard the distinct sound of the grille being pushed back.

'_Shit! Jim!'_

Recognition briefly flickered in his mind.

_Bones?_

'Spock, I got him!'

A reply, too low for him to hear.

'No, I-I can't get the door open. There's no lock, but it's jammed….'

_Definitely Bones_.

Then there was a juddering crash, and he heard footsteps running over to him. Two figures dropped next to him, and one of them set to work on the restraints around his wrists.

'Jim? Jim, can you hear me?'

Two cool fingers on his throat.

'He's still with us.'

He fancied that he heard a collective sigh of relief echo round the room.

'Kid, I need you to wake up for me. Jim. Jim, listen to me. You need to wake up.'

He groaned.

'That's it, kid.'

He couldn't remember his eyelids being this hard to lift.

'Bnes?'

'Yeah, I'm here. Now come on, let me see those pretty blues of yours.'

He cracked his eyes open a fraction to see a slightly fuzzy but definitely there best friend kneeling next to him.

'Hi, Bnes.'

The doctor gave a small smile.

'We're gonna get you out of here, Jim.'

'-know. Head-hurts. Thirsty.'

McCoy fumbled for the water bottle at his side, and then held it to Jim's lips. The younger man drank greedily- and God, if it wasn't the best thing he'd ever tasted- but after only a few sips McCoy pulled it back. He hated to do so- it was clear that Jim hadn't had a drink the whole time he'd been here, and that made him see red. If he ever got his hands on the devils who'd kidnapped Jim, there would be hell to pay.

'I'm sorry, I can't give you anymore just yet, Jim. It'd only make you sick.'

's'ok, Bones.

'You're gonna be fine, Jim. I promise.'

The doctor's hand rested on his throat a bit longer, before he heard the ruffle of uniform as Bones turned to address whoever was with him.

'His heart's racing like hell, and his temperature's higher than I'd like. He's definitely dehydrated, looks like a touch of heat stroke as well. We need to get him back to the ship as soon as possible.'

A quiet murmur of agreement, and then he was being lifted by two strong arms. He allowed himself to relax again, his eyes slipping shut.

* * *

The first thing he noticed as he fought to kick off the last dregs of unconsciousness was that wherever he was had a distinctly sterile scent, in stark contrast to the oddly musty smell of the pit he'd been kept in.

The second thing he noticed was the whirring of machines in the background, the various tones and beeps, each at a slightly different tempo. The one sounding nearest to him was keeping pace at a steady andante.

As he became more aware, he noticed that he was in a clean robe, and that he was lying on something soft. Even the sheets smelled sterile.

He knew that smell.

Sick Bay.

Sliding his eyes open, he found himself looking at a bright white ceiling. He knew that ceiling. In fact, he knew it a little too well for his liking. How many times had he woken up to see it?

He lay like that for a while, too tired to do much else. A door opening drew his attention, and he turned his head in the direction of the sound. A familiar figure stood by the steriliser, running his hands under it to clean them. The doctor turned around, and then moved towards him.

'I see you've finally deigned to wake up, Jim. How are you feeling?'

'Tired,' he noted how dry his mouth still felt, 'and thirsty.'

McCoy nodded, and quickly walked to a cupboard. He took out a plastic cup, filled it with water, and handed it to Jim. The younger man drank it eagerly, savouring its sweetness as it slipped down his throat.

'To tell you the truth, that's how I expected you to feel. You were dehydrated, and had the start of a fairly nasty case of heatstroke. Sorry about the needle in your hand, by the way; we had to hook you up to an IV to get some fluids in you.'

McCoy smiled fondly.

'Only you would get heatstroke underground in a cold cell.'

Jim frowned.

'I wasn't underground, Bones.'

The doctor's expression quickly shifted to his concerned-medical-professional face. Jim knew that expression. McCoy usually only wore it when he'd said something concerning that hinted at some underlying issue.

'Jim, you were. We had to go underground to get you out. You're lucky Gates found the stairs, otherwise we probably wouldn't have found you.'

Confusion flashed in electric blue eyes.

'No, I-I was in a pit, it was too hot, there wasn't any shade, there was no water….'

McCoy looked at him in horror.

'What?'

Jim's eyes met McCoy's, and the doctor clearly saw the distress swimming just below the surface.

'They- they said I needed to be purified. They called me a 'blue eyed demon'. I think they thought that something inside me needed to be driven out.'

McCoy brought a hand up to his face, rubbing his temples. Even with huge amounts of research into the population's cultural beliefs, they'd still managed to miss something as essential as 'belief that blue eyes are a sign of demonic possession.' Just a day later, and the situation could have been very different.

A purification by fire; extreme heat, no water, no shade during the day.

No wonder Jim had been in such a state when they got to him. He knew only too well how dangerous deserts were, even if you were adequately prepared for it.

'I'm glad we got to you in time, kid.'

A small smile spread itself across Jim's face.

'Me too, Bones.'

**Just another small note- heat stroke can kick in that quick if you're underprepared. Trust me, I grew up in the Middle East. I saw kids get treated for it after lunchtime at school because they'd been running around in the sun without hats and they didn't drink enough water. We had enforced drink breaks during summer term for a reason. I've had a few experiences of heat exhaustion (both myself and my sister- never anything serious, thankfully) so what Jim is feeling is basically based off my own experience.**

**Also apologies for the ending, I finished this at midnight (because I'm going away for two weeks, and I wanted to leave you all with something before I vanish for a fortnight). I know it's weak, and I'm so so sorry. I just wanted to get this done.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Just Leave the Nest Alone**

**So this chapter is a little different from the previous two- I decided to experiment a little with POV, so it's written from McCoy's view, and is pretty much a stream of consciousness (this is also what happens when inspiration is running low and this is **_**literally the only idea that I can work with**_**, and when I have next to no time because uni starts in two weeks and I've done roughly ½ the work I need to do before my first seminars) **

**Basically, Bones and Jim are trapped somewhere very cold (you've got to love that beautiful cliché, it's popular with fic writers for a reason!) Jim, as per, has managed to get himself injured. Cue Bones worrying. I hope there's enough angst and caring!Bones in here for all of you.**

**I'm very **_**very **_**unsure of this one, but I'm also conscious that it's been nearly a month since my last update- I am so sorry guys! I honestly didn't mean to take this long to get the next chapter out to you, but life got in the way (organising a charity concert, helping at an international chamber music festival in my town, university work, etc)**

**As always, please leave a review- did the change in POV work? Would you prefer me to stick to the 3****rd**** person narrator (yay A-Level English Lit coming in there…..) like I did for my first two chapters? Also, if there are any situations you'd like me to use/ any plot-bunnies you have, please let me know!**

**Thanks again to all the lovely people who have followed, favourite and reviewed so far, I honestly didn't expect to get so many of you to respond to it, so thank you thank you thank you!**

* * *

I have to say, when I first joined Starfleet I didn't expect there to be quite so much running involved.

Sure, I knew they valued fitness- it ensures the 'happiness' of crew members, and means that they 'work to the best of their ability', and all the rest of the usual spiel.

Plus it goes without saying that the work Starfleet carries out does occasionally call on you to run for your life- though I suspect those of us onboard the _Enterprise_ are placed in 'run-or-die' situations far more than other crews, which of course has absolutely nothing to do with our commanding officer, or the fact that certain members of the Admiralty seem to enjoy 'testing' him and, by extension, us.

So maybe I should say that yes, I knew there'd be some running involved.

I just didn't expect that running to be done while hauling a pretty much unconscious best friend through knee-deep snow in the middle of a blizzard.

Then again, things rarely seem to go the way I expect. I mean, it's not like I ever expected to even have the damned idiot as a best friend. Most normal people would have looked at him on that shuttle and run a mile. Hell, if I hadn't been pretty much forced into that seat by the stewardess, I wouldn't have gone near the kid. I'd probably have spent my years at the Academy with other medics, occasionally hearing about 'that Kirk kid' through the grapevine and quietly judging his attitude and actions from a distance; most likely it would have been a fairly peaceful experience.

Instead, I spent the whole time watching out for the idiot, patching him up as best as I could, making him rest when he'd burned the candle at both ends and was on the verge of collapse, dealing with his various issues (which he brokenly explained to me over the course of two hours, sometime in our second year when we were both very far gone on bourbon) and _somehow_ finding the time to do my work as well.

How we both made it out, alive and still friends, is a mystery.

To be brutally honest, I knew my experience of Starfleet would be far from conventional the day I realised I was in too deep with Jim.

And now, apparently, that unconventionality has extended to include running for my life with far more frequency than anyone ever should- approximately twice a month, dependent on how many ground teams I'm sent on, and the nature of the mission.

Running for my life on what was supposedly a simple case of checking out an uninhabited planet because Jim thought it looked 'interesting' is new, though.

I _told _him to be careful, _told_ him not to be suicidally thick, to come away from the nest.

'_Stop worrying, Bones! Look at the state of it, this thing hasn't been lived in in years_.'

Ah yes, because the claw marks and scales scattered everywhere were totally _not _evidence that something was recently in the area. They just _magically appeared_ on the ground.

I swear to God, everyone claims Jim is this amazing genius, that he's some sort of whizzkid who takes apart machines and solves physics formulae for fun, but he's not. Honestly. This is the idiot who grew up in the middle of the countryside, _who went to goddamned_ _Tarsus IV_ _and survived_, and he still hasn't got it into his thick skull that sometimes, it's best to leave things with teeth well alone.

And now, because of his sheer _stupidity_, he's almost gotten himself killed.

Again.

As if 7 near death experiences in as many months isn't enough.

To make it even better, we're sat in an ice cave, waiting out a storm that would rival those that batter Antarctica for 8 months of the year, and trying to avoid the thing that Jim pissed off. He never can time his critical injuries with being in a convenient location for me to fix him up, by which I mean, why the _hell _can he not just get himself injured _on board the goddamned Enterprise _so I can use all the equipmentI have _specifically been given _to handle this sort of crisis. No, instead he chooses to get attacked on a bloody _freezing_ planet where I have nothing but a basic medkit, we have next to no technology at all, and _of course _there's a blizzard so our comms are jammed and we can't call for help.

So all in all, I've had better exploration missions in my life.

The cold here is the sort that seeps into your bones, and it permeates everything; it's the kind that makes you feel like you'll never be warm again. There was a spare jacket in our packs, which I wrapped around Jim once we got into the cave (idiots, only bringing one spare jacket, next time we travel to a planet with a temperature that is permanently sub-zero, I'm going to make sure that we carry so much warm clothing that we can barely walk). The last thing I need is for him to get hypothermia on top of the fang wounds in his shoulder.

Blood loss combined with hypothermia is a fast track to death, and that's a road I really _really _want the permanent pain in my ass to avoid.

I'd checked the bite when we first got to the cave, neatly slicing his shirt across from the collar to expose the injury without letting too much vital heat escape. The two round holes were clean and cut deep down, but miraculously hadn't hit any veins; there was heavy bleeding, staining Jim's golden shirt a deep red, but I'd wiped the injury with iodine (primitive, but still as effective as ever) and wrapped it tightly with the roll of gauze from my medkit to slow the flow. It wasn't nearly sufficient, but it would have to do until the storm blew over. I hadn't spotted any signs of venom when I'd inspected the bites, and I hope that although the creature was dangerously territorial and had seemed to think that Jim was a perfect chew toy, it lacked any form of weird-venom-from-space-for-which-there-is-no-known-cure.

Jim shivers, and I shift slightly to pull him closer to my side. If he was conscious, I know he'd be making all sorts of lewd comments, like the absolute child that he is. Immature twat. I hold him close and feel the tremors that continue to wrack his body, whether from pain or cold it's impossible to tell. Most likely a combination of both.

Not for the first time, I wish there was a way that I could start a fire, contact the ship, do more to help him. He's not as pale as he was when I first dragged him into the cave, which is always a good sign; at least he's fighting, and he's stable.

That's all I can ask for.

_I'm sorry, Jim. I wish I could do more._

I tug my jacket so that it fits more snugly around me, bringing my hands up so that they are nestled in the warmth between my body and Jim's. I watch his breathing for a while- although it's still shallower than I like, at least it's fairly even.

_Just keep breathing, Jim. You're doing great. You just need to outlast this storm and then we'll be home and dry._

His head is resting on my shoulder, and I lean down slightly to the right to touch my forehead to the thick blond hair. How many times had he fallen asleep on my shoulder when we were watching a movie together? James Kirk, the man with seemingly boundless energy, was virtually incapable of sitting through a movie and staying awake. He'd end up leaning on me, and if work was catching up on me or I hadn't been getting enough sleep, I'd let my head drop to rest on his and fall asleep like that. Inevitably, we wouldn't mention it the next day, but I know that it was one of the keystones of our friendship, a display of trust and affection that we both needed. I briefly let my eyes slide shut, smiling at the familiarity of the close contact, before opening them again. I know I can't let myself fall asleep, know the creeping threat of the cold if I do. I won't be any help to Jim if I let myself fall into a hypothermic state.

Sighing, I curl myself around his inert form, willing the small pool of heat between us to grow.

_I'm going to get you out of this, Jim. I promise._

* * *

The next morning dawns, bitter and raw. My eyes sting from staying up all night, and I know that I won't be able to manage another vigil and still be able to look after myself and Jim. The sooner we get out of here, the better. I listen to the wind outside- it's still fierce, but sounds less like a hurricane than it did yesterday. Small victories, and all that.

The storm may have abated, but the issue of an unconscious, injured best friend and no means of communication with the ship continues to be a thorn in my side. Except in this situation, it's more like a goddamn broadsword hacking away at me; I'm conscious of every wasted minute, of the effect it could have on Jim, of the effect that waiting _is _having on him.

He's worse this morning. His breathing is quicker and raspier, and his face is so chalky that it looks as though someone smeared ash all over him. He's still not woken.

If it weren't for the fact that he was burning up, I'd instinctively say he was suffering hypothermia, which is damn near impossible to treat in a cave, on a planet where you are surrounded by _ice _and _snow _and basically everything that's just going to make hypothermia worse. Sorry, did I say 'damn near impossible'? I should've said 'completely, utterly, never-been-done-in-the-history-of-medicine, impossible.'

But luckily, hypothermia isn't an issue because Jim is currently pushing the 41°C mark.

Which is just fantastic.

The only explanation for the fever- when by rights he should be absolutely freezing, _not _feeling like a human oven- is the god awful bite on his shoulder. I peel back the layers of clothing until I see the blood-stained makeshift bandage wrapped around the wound. So much for stemming the bleed. Lifting the bandage, I can't help but grimace. The flesh around the fang wounds looks as though it has been partly eaten away, and his entire shoulder is red and swollen. Pus is starting to collect in each injury, mingling with the viscous blood that is still seeping out. I swallow hard- I may be a doctor, but some things still hit me hard- and sit back on my heels.

Shit, Jim.

Voices creep into the back of my head, a thousand bees buzzing incessantly against my skull- _he's going to die, there's nothing you can do about it, look at what the venom's doing, it's probably causing all sorts of damage inside that you can't see, that you can't stop, why didn't you spot this earlier, you idiot, he's dying and you're stuck on a freezing planet and you can't help him….._

Breathe, McCoy. Just breathe. Remember what they taught you. You're not a CMO for nothing.

Handle what you see in front of you. Do your best. Don't think about what _could _happen.

I take a few shuddering breaths, feeling the cold air punch my lungs. The doubts die down. I glance back at Jim.

_Think. How can you help him?_

I pride myself on being able to think on my feet, and on being able to take comfort from my years of experience. Now, though, I feel like a graduate fresh out of med school, being quizzed on treatment options by a senior doctor.

_High fever, low external temperatures. What do you do?_

Ordinarily, I'd try to bring his extreme temperature down- stripping his clothes, giving him an ice bath, anything.

Unfortunately, that's not exactly an option here, so I need a back-up plan.

_Think, McCoy!_

There's a spare cloth in the medkit, and I quickly retrieve it. I find a clean patch of snow just inside the doorway of the cave, and wrap the cloth around it to form a makeshift ice pack. Moving back to Jim, I gently place it on his forehead. It's not ideal, but hopefully it'll start to get his temperature down to a safer level.

I find the flannel that I used to clean his injury last night scrunched in a ball in my bag. I tip more iodine over it, before gently wiping at Jim's shoulder. Iodine stings like a bitch, so for this at least I'm glad he's completely out of it- treating a patient is always worse when they react to whatever you're doing, and honestly I despise causing Jim any kind of pain. The smell of the disinfectant makes my eyes water, but I keep working, clearing away the build up of pus and blood as carefully as I can.

I try not to think about the fact that the venom is already in his bloodstream.

* * *

The next few hours pass in a fairly routine cycle, mostly consisting of me rotating between changing Jim's ice pack, checking his temperature (still hovering around 40°C) and watching for any sort of change in his condition. The venom is clearly potent, if the damage to the bite site is anything to go by- it's only a matter of time before something else happens. Morbidly, I find myself speculating on the possible effects.

At approximately midday, I notice that the howling gale, which has been a constant soundtrack during our entire stay on this goddamned planet, has been replaced with silence.

The storm's over.

Wearily, I grin at the unconscious man next to me.

_We made it, Jim. I'll have you out of here in no time._

I flip my comm open.

'McCoy to _Enterprise_. _Enterprise, _do you read?'

Silence. Please, _please _don't let there be interference, _please _let them hear me.

'_Enterprise to McCoy, hearing you loud and clear, Doctor.'_

Honestly, I've never been so happy to hear Uhura's voice in my life. I've never been one for sentiment (no matter what Jim says, with all his 'Bones is a massive teddy bear' crap) but if she had been on planet with us, and I wasn't 10 years her senior, I'd have kissed her.

'Lieutenant, we need immediate evacuation. Jim's critical again.'

I could almost _hear _the eye rolls on the bridge. Their frustration and concern was palpable.

A few moments' silence.

'_Doctor, I've informed Scotty of the situation, he's just trying to get a latch on you….'_

'_Laddie, I've got coordinates on ye both, ready to beam when you are.'_

God bless the efficiency of the _Enterprise _crew. At least they're not all goddamned idiots who get themselves damn near _eviscerated _by venomous reptiles with large teeth on strange planets.

I look down at Jim.

_We're nearly home, kid._

'We're ready to get out of here, Mr Scott.'

* * *

It's two days later that the idiot finally opens his eyes again.

Two days of fever, seizures, and internal bleeding.

Two days of sleepless nights, staying up with him because god only knew what the venom might do to him next.

Two days of him on a life support machine, as his body tries it's hardest to shut down.

All I can say is that I'm grateful that we got back on the ship when we did. If Jim had suffered the full effects of the venom while in that cave…..

Well, let's just say the _Enterprise_ wouldn't have a captain anymore.

Which is why, when he cracks open his eyes, the first thing I want to do is punch him. I want to get rid of all the emotions I've been bottling since he was attacked, all the anger because he's so _goddamned irresponsible_, the strain of not knowing if he'll pull through, the _fear _and the _stress _and the _exhaustion_ and all the rest of it. I want him to know that what he put everyone through- what he put _me _through- is unforgivable.

The next thing I want to do is hug him, because I came so close to losing him. I want, more than anything, to reassure myself that he's fine, and that he's bounced back, like he always does because he's _James fucking Kirk_. I want him to know how much he scared me, how much I care about him because _god _I care about his idiotic carcass _so damn much_.

But in the end, I don't do either of those things.

I just sit in the chair next to his bed, and smile at him.

'Next time, kid, just leave the nest alone.'


End file.
